The Sapphire Cross

Jane’s Suspicions

It is quite possible that in his heart of hearts Sir Murray Gernon had doubts as to who had been the spoiler of his family jewels, but he would admit nothing to his breast but such thoughts as were disparaging to Norton.

At the Castle nods and smiles were prevalent, and the servants gossiped respecting the happy change that had taken place, arguing all sorts of gaieties once more; for – so they said – the old house had been like a dungeon lately, and almost unbearable.

But there were doubts still in the minds of both Jane Barker and her lover, the former watching Sir Murray as narrowly as ever he watched his lady. There was a feeling of uneasiness in Jane’s heart that grew stronger every day, a feeling not based upon any confidences of Lady Gernon’s – for, though invariably kind and gentle, Marion was not one to make a friend and counsellor of her servant – but upon Jane’s own observation. The scraps she gathered she pieced together, and, when alone, tried to form some definite course of action – a trial resulting in a rigid determination which she followed out.

What took place in private was never known, but the pallor upon Lady Gernon’s cheeks grew daily of a more sickly hue. A physician was sent for from the county town with great ostentation by Sir Murray, and shortly after, another from London, resulting in prescriptions and medicine, which her ladyship took daily, such medicine being always administered by Jane, who made a point, for some reason or another, of leaving the bottles always upon the table in her ladyship’s dressing-room; and this went on for quite a couple of months, the sickness increasing, though not sufficiently to confine Lady Gernon to her room. The walks, though, were pretty well given up, and it was only at very rare intervals that Lady Gernon strayed beyond the boundaries of the park.

The servants said that no one could be more attentive than Sir Murray now was, and that it was quite pleasant to see the alteration. But Jane said nothing, she merely tightened her lips, making no confidant; for once – twice, four different times – she had encountered Sir Murray coming from her mistress’s dressing-room; and once, after such a visit, when she went to give Lady Gernon her daily medicine, the poor girl fainted away upon learning that her duty had been forestalled by Sir Murray himself.

Whatever might have been Jane Barkers suspicions, she felt that this could not go on for ever; and worn out, and sick at heart, she one day put on her bonnet, ordered McCray to act as her escort, and made her way to Merland Hall.

Mrs Norton welcomed her heartily, but almost in dread, not knowing what interpretation might be placed upon the visit, should it come to Sir Murray’s ears. But, to her great astonishment, Jane’s first act was to close the window, and then, crossing the room, she turned the key in the lock; when, coming back close to the astonished occupant of the room, she threw herself down upon her knees, sobbing wildly; and catching hold of Ada’s hand, she kissed it fiercely again and again.

“Is anything wrong?” exclaimed Ada Norton, with a horrified look, for a dreadful fear had flashed across her mind.

“No, Miss Ada – I mean Mrs Norton —not yet – not yet! but unless some one interferes there soon will be! Oh, ’m! I didn’t care to go to the Rectory, for I knew that they wouldn’t believe me there! but I’m afraid something dreadful will happen to my poor dear lady! I have come to you because you are her cousin, and I know you loved her, though things have gone so crooked since. But what shall we do, ’m? for since that last time when my lady met Mr Norton in the wood, and Sir Murray caught them – ” Jane ceased, for Ada Norton leaped to her feet as if some galvanic shock had passed through her frame.

“Oh, what am I saying, ma’am? I didn’t think that you’d take it in that way, nor yet that you wouldn’t know of it. It was nothing, ma’am; only Sir Murray was telling my lady of it; and she said that they met by accident, and that almost all her words to him were to send her love to you, ma’am.”

“It was, then, upon that occasion?” said Ada Norton, in agitated tones.

“Yes, ’m; and I was in the dressing-room, and heard all. Not that Sir Murray spoke angrily, but in a curious, sneering tone that frightens my lady; and ever since then she’s been ill, and taking medicine; and – oh, ’m! – you would not get me into trouble for trying to do what’s right by my lady?”

“No – no,” said Ada, who was trying to recall her husband’s words when he had told her of his last meeting with Lady Gernon, for he had said nothing respecting the coming of Sir Murray.

“Well, ma’am,” sobbed Jane, “since then” – she sank her voice into a whisper, and sent a thrill of horror through Ada Norton as she spoke – “since then, ma’am, I’m sure Sir Murray has been trying to poison her!”

“Poison my cousin, Lady Gernon?” exclaimed Ada. “Nonsense! Absurd! Jane, you are mad!”

“I hope I am, ma’am, about that – indeed I do!” cried Jane, earnestly.

“But what have you seen? What do you know?” exclaimed Mrs Norton.

“I haven’t seen anything, ma’am, except Sir Murray coming sometimes out of the dressing-room, where the medicine’s kept; and I don’t know anything except that my lady’s medicine always tastes different, and looks different, when it’s been in the dressing-room a day or two; and every week it turns a darker colour, and tastes stronger than it did the week before. And besides all that, though Sir Murray smiles, and pretends to talk pleasant to the poor dear, suffering angel, than whom a better woman never lived, he hates her dreadfully, and more and more every day.”

“And how long has this been going on?” said Mrs Norton, with a faint smile.

“Weeks now, ma’am,” said Jane. “But I see you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you to be a good, affectionate girl, Jane,” said Mrs Norton, “and that you love your mistress; but this seems to me to be a fearful and perfectly unfounded suspicion – one that I am glad, for every one’s sake, that you have hinted to no one else. Think of the absurdity of the thing. This has, you say, been going on for weeks; and yet, you see, your mistress is not poisoned yet.”

“No, ma’am, not yet,” said Jane, meaningly.

“Well, then, my good girl, how do you account for that?”

“Because, ma’am,” said Jane, in a whisper, “she’s never taken any of the medicine but once.”

“How? What do you mean?” exclaimed Mrs Norton.

“I’ve managed to get the stuff made up at two places, ma’am,” whispered Jane. “One lot’s fetched by the footman from one chemist’s, at Marshton, and I get the gardener to go to another chemist’s for the other. I only had to send the doctor’s paper, and the medicine comes just like what Sir Murray knows is sent for.”

“Well,” exclaimed Ada, impatiently.

“Well, ’m,” whispered Jane, “that which her ladyship takes I keep locked up, and that which stands on the dressing-table gets poured out of the window, a little at a time, upon the flower-beds.”

Ada Norton sat silently gazing at Jane for a few minutes before she spoke.

“Jane,” she said, “this is a fearful charge!” and she shuddered. “I must think about it, and before many hours I will come over to the Castle, and see either Sir Murray or Lady Gernon. Do not be afraid; I will not implicate you in any way. I must see Mr Elstree, and I will try to make some plan – to arrange something definite; but your words have confused me – almost taken away my breath. The thing seems so monstrous, and even now I cannot believe it true! But I should not feel that I had done my duty if, after what you have said, I did not take some steps; so rest assured that I will do something, and at once.”

Jane rose to go, and, trembling and excited, Ada Norton sat for some hours, pondering whether she should ask her husband’s advice, ending by putting it off till the next day, when it happened that it was out of her power.

Not at Home

“Did you see the laird?” said McCray, coming slowly forth from behind some bushes, after Jane had been standing some few minutes in the lane where she had left him to wait.

“The laird!” said Jane, starting. “Why, who do you mean?”

“Mean? Why, Sir Mooray himself. I saw him turn round to have a good look at ye, as ye came across the home close from the Hall. And ye didna see him?”

“No – no – no!” sobbed Jane. “Oh dear – oh dear! I’m undone!”

“Nay – nay, ye’re not, lassie; for I’ll a’ways stand by ye. Dinna greet aboot that. Ye didna tell me why ye came, but I know it’s for some good, and that ye’ll tell me all in good time.”

“That I will, indeed!” sobbed Jane; “but don’t ask me now!”

“Nay, then, I’m not speering to know,” said Sandy, contentedly. “He was riding the grey horse, ye ken, and he seemed to catch sight o’ ye all at aince; when, thinking it wasna warth while for twa to be in trouble, I hid myself in the bushes till he’d gone by.”

The next day, one anxiously looked forward to by more than one of the characters in this story, came in due course; and, towards evening, Lady Gernon slowly passed through the hall door, basket in hand, and making her way across the lawn, disappeared from the sight of Sandy McCray behind some bushes at the edge of the park.

The hours sped on, and Ada Norton drove up in one of Chunt’s flys from the village public-house, after waiting some time at the Rectory, in a vain endeavour to see Mr Elstree, who was from home. She had, after many hours’ thought, but a vague idea of the best plan to pursue, and even now questioned the wisdom of her course. In fact, more than once the check-string had been in her hand to arrest the driver, and order him to return to the Hall; but, from sheer shame at her vacillation, she let it fall again, and gazed slowly out from the fly-window at the glorious sweep of the noble domain through which she was being driven, and sighed again and again as she thought of the misery of its owners. She half shrank from meeting Lady Gernon, for she felt that, in spite of all her assurances to the contrary, her cousin must feel something of repugnance to the woman who had, as it were, taken her place. Not that she had robbed Lady Gernon of her happiness; she had been ready to resign all hope, and had given up, stifling her own feelings, when duty told her that she was called upon so to act. But could Marion feel the same?

She asked herself that question as the fly drove up to the noble front of the great mansion; and then, rousing herself for the task in hand, she prepared to meet her cousin.

“Not at home,” was the answer given by the footman to the driver; when Ada beckoned the man to the fly door – a slow-speaking, insolent menial, who had, before now, performed Sir Murray’s liest in acting the part of spy.

“I think,” said Ada, “that my cousin would see me, even if she is confined to her room.”

“Sir Murray give orders, mum, that they were not at home to visitors from the Hall; and, besides, my lady ain’t in.”

Ada Norton felt that it was cowardly, but it was with a sense of relief that she sank back against the cushions, and began to turn over in her mind what course she ought to pursue. She dreaded the exciting effect it might have upon her husband, if she revealed to him the words she had heard from Jane; and, trembling with an anxiety she could not drive away, she returned to the Hall, to find that Captain Norton had gone out.

“Packed a carpet bag, ma’am,” said the servant, “and then wrote a note for you, after sending for Master Brace, and kissing him.”

The note was on the table, and snatching it up, Ada Norton read as follows: —

“Dearest Ada,

“Do not think hardly of me. I could not help myself; but I know you will not judge me harshly. More when I write again; but give no information of my movements to a soul. I shall be away some time, but I have made full arrangements with Garland and Son about you. Philip.”

Abrupt, enigmatical, and strange; but it was like him. There was a vein of affection, though, running through it all. He had made arrangements for her; but the tears dimmed Ada Norton’s eyes as she stood with the letter in her hands. What could it all mean? she thought. Had it anything to do with the mining transaction? Should she drive over to Marshton the next day, and ask Messrs Garland and Son, her husband’s solicitors? No, she would not do that; it would be like prying into his affairs. She had always had faith in him, so far, and that faith should continue to the end.

She dashed away the tears heroically, little thinking how soon and how sorely she was to be tried. It was nothing new for Norton to absent himself, and she could wait patiently for his return. “Like a good wife,” she said, smilingly; and then, sitting down, she took her work, but only for it to fall into her lap, as she tried to divine what would be her best plan to adopt in connection with the strange information which had the day before been imparted to her.

A Storm at Merland

Sir Murray Gernon had, during the past few weeks, made a good deal of use of his horses – another sign, the stablemen observed, of a returning good state of things, for they were growing quite tired of doing nothing but taking the horses out for exercise. But Sir Murray’s rides were only round and about his own estate: he never went far, though he was out for hours at a time; and the day before there was again a fierce look upon his face, as he caught sight of Jane Barker hurriedly leaving Merland Hall.

“Of course!” he said; he might have known that before. Time proved all things, and here, at length, was before his eyes the arrangement by which letters and messages had been conveyed.

But he was, if anything, more than usually courteous to my lady that evening at dinner. Sir Murray hadn’t been in such a good temper for long enough past, said one of the footmen; only my lady looked so ill and sad, and shivered so. It was almost a pity she should have come down to dinner.

Sir Murray had been out again, riding up and down forest paths, and by copse edges, along by field and meadow; and always with his head bent, and a watchful look in his eye.

About an hour after Ada Norton’s visit to the Castle, Sir Murray slowly walked his horse up to the door, and the footman ran down the steps, and laid his hand on the animals neck.

“Stand aside a few minutes, William,” said Sir Murray; and the groom, who had also run up to take the saddle-horse, touched his hat and fell back. “Well, what now?” he exclaimed hastily, for something in the footman’s face told of tidings.

“I thought I’d better tell you, Sir Murray,” said the man, “her ladyship – ”

“Not – ?” ejaculated Sir Murray, starting, and turning livid, as he checked himself. “Has the doctor been sent for?”

“No, Sir Murray,” said the man; “her ladyship ain’t worse, only she went out this afternoon.”

“Well?” said the baronet. “That’s all, Sir Murray,” said the man, timidly. “I was called away, and didn’t see her go. I didn’t know it till just now, when one of the gardeners said he saw her go out, and he thought the pony-carriage ought to be sent for her, as a storm was coming on.”

“She has not come back, then?” exclaimed Sir Murray; and then, clapping spurs to his horse, he made it dash forward; but only to check it the next instant, rein back, and descend, beckoning up the groom, and then slowly mounting the steps.

“You have not said a word of all this?” said the baronet, in a low tone.

“Not a word, Sir Murray!” exclaimed the man, with an injured air. “You can trust me, sir.”

Sir Murray Gernon smiled bitterly, as he threw his hat and gloves to the man, and entered his library, leaving the door open, and watching for Lady Gernon’s return.

An hour elapsed, and then he rang.

“No, Sir Murray; her ladyship has not returned.”

Another hour passed, and the storm prophesied of by Alexander McCray was at hand. First came a deep gloom; then the sighing of the wind in faint puffs, as it swept round the house; then there was a flash or two of lightning, and the muttering of thunder; then flash after flash lighting up the heavens, succeeded by a darkness as of the blackest night. A few minutes seemed to elapse, as if Nature was preparing herself for a grand effort; and then, with a mighty, rushing crash, down came the main body of the storm, of which the previous mutterings had been but the avant-garde. The rain seemed to fall in one vast sheet, through which the blue lightning cut and flickered; while, with a deafening roar, peal after peal of thunder seemed to burst over the mansion, threatening it with destruction.

“Should the pony-carriage be brought round, sir?” asked the footman, shouting to make himself heard.

“Yes,” said Sir Murray, “and my horse. Send McCray, the gardener, here, too.”

McCray, who had been trying to console Jane, who was greatly agitated, soon made his appearance before Sir Murray.

“McCray, take one of the horses, and go round from cottage to cottage till you find where her ladyship has taken refuge. Williams, you go south with the pony-carriage, and I shall ride east.”

The gardener saluted, and ten minutes after, heedless of the storm – though he had hard work with his frightened beast – he was mounted, amidst the sneers of the grooms, who looked upon such missions as within their province, and resented the coming of the interloper accordingly.

“The puir weak body! But I’ll soon find her,” muttered McCray, as he cantered on out at the park gates; and then going from cottage to cottage, and at last entering the forest, and riding between the dripping trees, and along the slippery clay paths to the different keepers’ houses, but without avail; so that, at last, thoroughly soaked and disheartened, he turned back, feeling sure that, before that time, her ladyship must have returned.

“Not come back,” whispered one of the grooms to him, as he entered the yard. “Williams got back an hour agone, and Sir Murray has been in and gone out again.”

Just at that moment, with his horse in a foam, Sir Murray galloped up.

“Well?” he said, eagerly.

“No one has even seen her leddyship, Sir Mooray,” said the gardener, curtly.

“The same answer everywhere!” exclaimed the baronet. “Let every man mount and set off. Tell the keepers to search the wood. You, McCray, come with me, unless Williams has returned.”

“Williams is so wet, sir, he’s gone to bed,” said a man.

“Quick, then, McCray!” exclaimed Sir Murray; “and keep that tongue of yours silent afterwards!”

“Ye may trust me, Sir Mooray,” said McCray, gruffly; and setting off at a smart canter, they were soon nearing the village street.

The storm had by this time passed over, and the stars were blinking out here and there; but from every tree and leaf the great drops fell pattering down, while ditch and channel ran furiously with their unwonted muddy currents.

“Go into that public-house, and ask what conveyances have gone out from there to-day – this afternoon?” said Sir Murray.

McCray returned in five minutes, followed by the inquisitive Chunt.

“Good evening, Sir Murray,” he said, hat in hand, and not seeing the frown upon the baronet’s countenance. “I’ve been telling your man, Sir Murray, nothing’s gone but the dog-cart as Cap’en Norton came and had out. Carried his bag over, sir, and wouldn’t wait for a man to bring the car back; said he’d drive himself, and leave it at ‘The Chequers,’ at Marshton, Sir Murray.”

The mud from the horse’s hoofs was splashed in Chunt’s face as he finished, for Sir Murray stuck in the spurs so, that the poor brute plunged furiously; and it was all that McCray – not the best of horsemen – could do to overtake him, as he galloped along the main road to Marshton, where they arrived about ten, with their horses blown, and covered with foam, Sir Murray, who had not spoken, leading the way into the inn-yard.

“Chunt’s dog-car, sir? Brought in here about five, sir, by a boy as a gent gave sixpence to bring it in, sir. Tall gent, with a mark across his face, sir,” the boy said.

So spake “The Chequers” hostler, in reply to questions put by Sir Murray Gernon, who had drawn his hat down over his eyes, and turned up the collar of his coat, as though to prevent his being recognised.

“What boy, sir? Can’t say, sir. Looked like lad returning from harvest work. Quite a stranger to these parts, sir.”

Without another word, Sir Murray Gernon turned his horse’s head, and rode out of the yard, followed by McCray, who clung to him as if he had been his shadow; but the horses were now tired, unused as they were to much exertion, and it was getting close upon midnight when the baronet and his servant rode into the stable-yard at Merland Castle.

Sir Murray asked no questions. It was plain enough, from the silence, that there was no news; so throwing his bridle to a groom, his act was closely imitated by McCray, who followed him into the library.

“I’m sorry for the puir body, wherever she is,” muttered McCray; “but, perhaps, after all, there’s naething the matter. Onyhow, such a ride, and such a wetting, desarves a drappie of toddy, and perhaps Sir Mooray may ask me to take it. I’ll follow him, anyhow, for how do I know whether he’s done wi’ me?”

Jane Declares

McCray stood watching his master with attentive eye, as, apparently ignorant of his presence, the baronet – drenched as he was with rain and perspiration – threw himself into a chair, and covered his face with his hands.

The gardener stood on one leg, then on the other, then leaned on a chair-back, putting himself into every posture that would give him a little ease, for he was well-nigh exhausted. But no notice took Sir Murray. He was apparently buried in himself; and, at last, unable to draw his attention by coughing and shuffling about, Sandy McCray prepared to speak.